


terminallyLalonde

by whitetigerlily



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitetigerlily/pseuds/whitetigerlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do if you are viciously bullied by a classmate? If you are the astute, willful Rose Lalonde, and said classmate happens to be your vile classmate Vriska, the answer is obvious: exact your brutal, merciless revenge. But what is the result when a bizarre, ridiculously tall drug addict is thrown in?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You are now the victim.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic. Constructive criticism is welcome.

Reader: Be the victim. 

You are now the victim. Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are very tired of the antics of a certain obnoxious individual. The obnoxious individual in question is (unfortunately for you) your classmate. She is Vriska Serket, and is a vile, noxious child who masks her insecurities by showing obvious disdain for the wizard-filled vagaries of her peers. Or rather, just you. Your affinity for wizards is your quiet private hobby, written in hushed scratchings in your notebook. However, much to your dismay, the obnoxious individual has somehow found out about your fondness for magick and such, and is now proceeding to belittle you for your refined hobby. You tell her she can go have self-fulfilling intercourse. She does not take this well. Normally antagonizers do not take lightly being countertrolled and she is no exception. This is all well and good, as you do not care. Her ludicrous attempts to boost her self-image in the eyes of your classmates by alienating you from them are both childish and irritating. Of course, you have no intention of becoming intimate with the adolescents that surround you, but it is the principle of the thing that really gets your metaphorical goat. She is dismayed by your clever rebuttal and is obviously working very hard to generate a comeback. You have won this round, Lalonde, you say to yourself.

Rose: Be the antagonizer.

You are now the antagonizer, and that bitch Lalonde just told you to fuck yourself. There is noooooooo way she's gonna live that down. No fucking way. Vriska Serket does not lose, especially not to stuck-up bratty losers. This is not your first time around the track, you know exactly how to get to her.

Vriska: Be future Rose.

You are now future Rose. You have returned from possibly the most idiotic engagement of your school day, meaning you have just returned to the locker room from gym. You are not in a good mood. Vriska looked far too self-contented for her to still be wallowing in the cleverness of your verbal sparring ability. You quickly take stock of all your belongings, as you doubt vandalizing is beneath her. You freeze. You are unable to find your notebook. Things are looking more and more grim as you search the recesses of your backpack and still it does not turn up. Your stomach is now very sick as you turn mechanically and walk towards the bathroom stalls of the locker room. The third stall. There. That is indubitably your precious notebook in the toilet. Your fondness for purple pen has now turned against you as you see that all the ink has been effectively smeared and turned the water in the bowl a shade of lilac that in another situation you might have time to appreciate. But right now, you will wait. Revenge will be yours. Rose Lalonde does not lose.

...So you say, but if you are being completely honest with yourself, it has bothered you somewhat significantly that she has destroyed your gripping anthology of wizard tales. They were beautiful works, written from hour after hour of harsh self-editing and refining. You like your writing and it is one of the few things you take comfort in. You have left the locker room and are now storming to your next class in a rage. You will not cry. You will not let that pathetic excuse for a tormentor see you for one second shedding tears over something she has done. You will not give her the pleasure of seeing you so enervated, she will never-

You are pulled out of your personal bubble of misery and fury by a hand touching your shoulder and forcefully pulling you around to face its owner. The owner himself is a lanky, gangly sort of creature with an absurd amount of makeup on. He is probably an upperclassman, but you have never engaged him before in conversation. You do not even know his name. His obvious drug addiction has caused you to label him as someone beneath your dignity and you have hardly noticed his presence in school despite his gaudy appearance. His affinity for dark clothes is pushing bad taste to its limits. There is a term for his type, a colloquialism used by your classmates to describe the incredible display of facepaint he applies to himself. 'Juggalo' is what they call it. You don't really care about that, however, you really just want to get to class and plan some vicious revenge. Yes, that sounds good. However, the emaciated boy is now facing you and you guess you are forced now to listen to him drivel, as his hand is still on your shoulder in a nonthreatening but firm way. 

"Hey there, little pretty girl,"

For the love of all that is holy. He cannot be serious. You answer contritely with "What do you want," framing it more as a deadpan statement than a question that could be misconstrued as interest.

He looks perplexed, as if he did not expect such an obvious question. His hand slips off your shoulder. Good, it was getting decidedly awkward, though the spot his hand left is now comparatively cold which bothers you for reasons you cannot yet voice in words.

"I'm sorry, l'il girl, I just thought you looked like you needed a little miracle is all," he says as he pulls out-dear Jaspers in heaven-is that a horn? It is a horn. And he honks it right in your face, so loudly that your eardrums hurt, protesting against the sickening sound. He grins at you in the lopsided way that only the incredibly intoxicated can. You should know, having spent much of your childhood seeing your mother in that state. 

"Doncha feel better now? I see you all the time all scowlin'-like, an I think, you're like my best friend karkat, but today you look all upset. I didn't want no little pretty thing like you all sad,"

This is excruciating.

I saw you bein' all sad an see I thought, 'Gamzee, the little pretty girl might wanna see your horn coz she's so upset and all', so I came over and showed yo-"

You have had enough of this worthless prattle. 

You are acutely aware that there are few things in life that cannot be fixed with a left hook and that is exactly what you gave him. You are unsure of if he is mocking you or simply lost in a delusional world where stoner clowns can thoughtlessly converse with revenge-bent underclassmen, but you will have none of this. He reels back and you crack a slight smile out of pure satisfaction. Rude people like him are hardly your concern, and you do not look back as you walk off. Had you looked back, though, you might have seen him reel back a little and look at you confusedly, with a marked degree of sadness. You might have heard him murmur to himself, "You be okay, Gamzee. The pretty l'il girl didn't like your horn because she's sad about somethin'. She ain't mean to hurt you. She didn't mean to hurt you. You're gonna show her somethin' miracle-like sometime else and she's gonna like you more then." And you would have seen him slump against the wall, being passed by as if he weren't even there by everyone. But you did not, because you are busy pulling out your phone to look at your messages. Your friends are going to flip when they hear about Vriska.


	2. You are now the planner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is expected to be around 5 chapters long. Constructive criticism appreciated.

Phone in hand, you open your favorite app, the one that contains the messages of your only three friends. They are generally not very intelligent, but for some reason they are infinitely more tolerable than the people in your school. Perhaps the knowledge that you can block them at will comforts you. You take a mental note to psychoanalyze this aspect of your personality later. But for now, you decide to pester your friend John. He tends to be the most reasonable with this sort of thing. 

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] --  
EB: hey rose, whats up?  
TT: I need to speak to you about a somewhat pressing matter.  
EB: sure, what do you want to talk about?  
TT: A certain obnoxious individual has vandalized a priceless belonging of mine.  
EB: let me guess: vriska?  
TT: The very same. She has continually chosen to make me her adversary in our recent verbal altercations yet has shown that, once bested, she is nothing more than a pathetic and conniving coward.   
EB: listen, rose, i dont think you should push this girl vriska. she sounds like bad news to me and i think you should just stay out of it and back off.  
TT: Thank you for your concern, John, but I do not intend to let her antics go without vengeance.  
EB: i just dont think its a good idea.  
TT: I have the perfect plan. Thank you, John, you've been very helpful.   
EB: rose,  
\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] --  
EB: be careful.

You are not sure yet how exactly you will execute your vengeance, but you do know it will be something tremendous and cunning. She will never even know what metaphorically hit her. You remind yourself to calm down. No need to get ahead of yourself and spoil this perfect machination. No, what you need to do is wait. Nothing is easier than taking down an enemy enveloped in a false sense of security. Your revenge will be perfect.

Rose: Be your future future self  
You are now your future future self. That is, you are current Rose, who happens to be the future self of your future self, the latter of whom now resides in the past. For some reason people are often baffled when you explain this concept to them. You are working very hard in your favorite secluded section of the library, working at a decrepit desk wedged awkwardly between knitting guides and an unusual amount of copies of Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery. It is really no wonder nobody ever comes back here...

...Except for one guy, evidently. As you become the near-magickal scribe of a vicious gloating speech of vengeance that tells of the havoc you intend to wreak on your tormentor's life that you will memorize and recite at their demise (you are a naturally prepared person, afterall), you are brutally attacked from behind by a bony figure that your nose tells you can only be the illustrious boy from earlier. You use the word 'illustrious' ironically here, of course. Your friend Dave would be proud.

Aforementioned illustrious figure is hugging you from behind in a way you can only construe as a strange romantic gesture that is COMPLETELY UNWARRANTED and you might be freaking out a miniscule amount. You do not do romance or amorous pursuits or any of the hormone-driven endeavors of your peers. He is making heat rise to your face. This is really just the sugary ornamentation on the symbolic pastry. You are working to get over your mortification and brief bout of arrhythmia (you refuse to acknowledge it as anything else) by unwinding the lanky boy's arms from your torso but his grip surprisingly strong despite his constant intoxication. You resolve to sit as apathetically as you can manage throughout the duration of this horrible embrace. You urge your brain to stop sending your stomach pulsing electronic impulses akin to butterflies. This is getting ridiculous. You try to stop your awkward denial that this boy's contact with you is making you very, very uncomfortable. You are not good with physical contact. Your mother was never particularly affectionate with you and your friends all live on the internet. Hugging honestly makes you feel weird.

When he finally releases you, you turn to face him and are approximately halfway to delivering another spectacular punch when you are caught off-guard by his ridiculously sincere look of relief. Your puzzlement lasts merely an instant before you give him a look of irritation. 

"Aw, I'm so happy, little girl, I'm so happy," he says as he pets your head with a mix of what you interpret to be affection, yet you do not rule out the possibility of condescension. This is high school, after all. You admit to yourself that the sensation is not altogether unpleasant but you cannot fathom his reasoning.

"Am I missing something? I don't believe we have ever been acquainted and yet you have not once but twice approached me today in the most rude and unorthodox ways." 

"Oh, my name's Gamzee, little thing. I didn't know none about you an' me not havin' met before. I see you all the time, see,"

You choose to interrupt here. "You see me in the hallways, but that hardly warrants this- this sort of physical affection."

He stops petting your head. His hands slump to his sides and he looks dejected again.

He looks at you like he can't clearly focus somehow. He then smiles in a ridiculous way, with all his teeth showing, but it is a casual smile. You have just been blatantly cold him, and he smiles through it. How odd. "Everybody tells me I need to explain myself properly when I see a miracle happen," he says, his words coming slowly as he picks each one carefully through a clouded mind, "and today, in the hallway, I saw you so motherfuckin' sad, little girl. All the time, see, I sees you an' you're scowlin' and smirkin' and doin' all sorts of crazy-ass expressions on your pretty face (you snort at this. The boy in clown makeup is one to talk about other peoples' expressions) but today I see nothing but sad. Little girl, I was worried for you all day." 

You go to spit a venomous response but stop. He was actually, genuinely worried about you. Nobody ever worries about you. You are the tenacious, unbeatable Rose Lalonde. And right now, you are speechless.

"But now, seein' you here," he continues, swiping your bangs out of your face so you are forced to make eye contact, "you're the same 's you always are. It's like a motherfuckin' miracle, you know?" 

 

You have been very aware of the fact that the entire length of the conversation since he has been kneeling in front of your chair, and he is very, very tall. In this position, his eyes are level with yours. You wonder what he looks like underneath his makeup. 

You, of course, do not stay quiet long. Speechlessness, you have decided, is unbecoming. And though you despise the thought and have never before in your life done so, you apologize to him.

"Look....Gamzee. I've never really done this sort of thing, so you will have to excuse me for any flaws in my execution, but I just wanted to say I am sorry for earlier. I meant to hit you, but in a way I did not. I suppose I just used you as a tool for expressing the frustration I felt at the time. Ordinarily I am not so violently inclined."

There, you have done it. An apology. Your very first. It was not so hard, really. Simple in execution, complicated in vocabulary, just the way you like things. Gamzee, however, is laughing. You narrow your eyes at him. This had better not be some damn joke to-

"You're so motherfuckin' cute, Rose! You don't gotta talk so formal all the time when you're around me, you feel? It don't sound natural."

Why does everything he say end up completely throwing you for a loop? Formal? Your eloquent speech is a sign more of your superior intelligence than of any particular desire for formality. You guess you could probably talk like a normal kid too, though. If you wanted to. Really, all your fancy talk was a mechanism to deter others from looking down on you. But also because you really enjoy sounding smart. Whatever.

"I suppose, if it bothers you, I can try to relax my vocabulary a little."

He nods knowingly, and asks curiously, "So what're you motherfuckin' doin' down here, anyway? In this li'l corner all tucked away an' stuff."

It's your turn to smile now. In as few large words as possible, you explain your plan for revenge, detailing your plans to get back at the girl who ruined your precious notebook. He listens quietly at first, but the minute Vriska's name comes up he takes your face in his hands and looks you straight in the eyes and you wonder if he was ever high at all. "Don't you go gettin' mixed up with her, hear? She's nothing but problems. No miracles gonna come from people near her, so don't go gettin' mixed up any."

Your brow furrows. How does Gamzee know Vriska? He sees your confusion and answers as if he knew what you were thinking. "Me an' her, we used t' play together. We played with some other li'l motherfuckers an' it was real fun at first but Vriska, she got to motherfuckin' serious about this game. She killed people, Rose," he says with a thick voice. "My rap partner got killed by that girl. An' my friend's girlfriend. Somebody else, she got motherfuckin' blinded. Don't go near Vriska."

 

"Does anyone know about this?! When did it happen?"

He gets somewhat still. "We decided to say everything was an accident. So nobody else got hurt."

This is it. This is exactly what you needed for your revenge. You know she's dangerous but you've got leverage now. She can still be legally tried for this as long as there are witnesses (not that you actually intend to try her, you just intend to freak her out). You know Gamzee told you not to, but one juggalo stoner is not about to keep you from showing what happens to those who cross you. This is hardly one of that kid Karkat's romcoms.


	3. You are now the blackmailer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, some characters might be OOC. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.

Reader: Be the hunted.

You are now the hunted. You do not know that you are hunted, of course. You just know that you are online LARPing like the badass you are when your roleplay is interrupted by some low-level noob. God, you hate these losers. Just this once, though, you'll do one of these assholes the favor of talking to them. Troll her up, teach her to try and talk to someone hundreds of levels above her. Luckily, FLARP is hooked up to Trollian and you can just use your account there.  
\--arachnidsGrip[AG] began trolling tentacleTherapist[TT]--  
AG: Hey there, loser! Looking for an ass-kicking? ;;;;)  
TT: Hi, Vriska.  
AG: How the hell do you know my name?   
TT: Really? You only talk about it constantly. Your, and I quote, "great and kick-ass adventures and show-stopping FLARP skills," are all you seem to concern yourself with, other than tormenting the poor souls around you.  
AG: Alright, shut the fuck up, I get it. Who are you? Terezi if this is you I swear to-  
TT: It's Rose.  
AG: Rose? Who is that?  
TT: You have got to be kidding me.   
AG: Oh, wait, hold on a sec, you couldn't possi8ly 8e that 8itch whose writing was literally shit? >::::)  
TT: You're still on that? Boy, if I were you I think I'd be worried about bigger things.  
AG: Uh-huh. Yeah. Like what, exactly?  
TT: Nothing big. Just the murder of some friends, the permanent impairment of others, you know. The usual.  
AG: Who f8cking told y8u a88ut that?!   
TT: Wouldn't you just love to know.   
AG: I sw8ar if 8 get my h8nds 8n y8u I'm going to fucking kill you.   
TT: No, you won't.   
AG: Th8s is fucking 8lackmail. Do you kn8w that? Th8s is ill8gal.  
TT: So is killing people.  
AG: You 8etter fuck8ng w8tch yo8r b8ck, L8londe.  
\--arachnidsGrip[AG] has signed off--

Vriska: Be Rose.

And once again you are Rose. You are feeling completely on top of the world right now, seeing as you have completely annihilated the pride of your greatest tormentor. You wonder what she will do next to keep your fierce rivalry afire. No matter what she does, you know that you will end up on top. Her blind fury is no match for your intricate manipulation. You feel the deep-set desire to unfold your tale of intrigue unto others, but you think twice before pestering your friends. John? No, he would definitely be upset and have no idea how to properly enjoy your gloating. Jade? Telling Jade would require a lengthy account of all the events up until now. That would not only take forever but also diminish the feeling of pride by forcing you to recall irritating events. Dave? You cringe at the thought. That only leaves your real-life friends. Of which you have none. Well, except for that one guy. Him. Ugh. You do not know how to reach him on Pesterchum, however, so you settle for sleeping with a smirk on your face that night and telling him tomorrow.

~ 

This is frustrating. You have been looking for that clown for over half of your lunch period now, and he has still yet to surface. Everyone in school shares the same lunch, so it is not as if he could possibly be taking classes. It occurs to you now that he could be in the senior lounge, an ill-used little storage-room-turned-lounge that is rarely used by most seniors, as it reeks to high heaven and seldom gets cleaned. The smell should hardly bother him, though, seeing how his own odor is a mix of face paint and various drugs at any point in time. You shiver a little to think how clearly you can remember the smell, having spent a lot of time recently in close contact with him. 

Well, you find him in the senior lounge. He is sprawled over a ratty couch, staring off to space by himself. You wonder if he ever eats a proper lunch. Several pie tins are spread at his feet. You do not even want to think about what they previously contained. The thought brings you to his mouth, covered in a strange...substance of some sort. You scowl and walk over, using one end of your scarf to wipe it off before you realize exactly what you are doing and abruptly stop. Regaining your composure, you sit beside him, making room for yourself on the couch next to his ridiculously long legs. He is just barely registering your presence, turning to face you with a blank expression. When he realizes who you are, his face splits into an uneven grin that exposes white teeth. It is almost a bit frightening until he begins talking. 

"Oh hey there little Rose! 'S been awhile my li'l motherfucker."

You scowl a little bit. "Gamzee, we talked yesterday."

His eyebrows come together a little bit but he lets it go. "I guess time's just a little motherfuckin' different for me, man. It's like a motherfuckin' miracle!"

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him and get to the point. "I have Vriska completely trapped now. There is absolutely no way she could possibly threaten me now, not with her every weakness ready to be exposed. This is a game for me to win, Gamzee." You know he is not listening very well and probably has no idea what is going on but it feels exhilarating to profess your dark tales of rivalry and success. As it turns out, he has enough of his wits about him to infer what you have done and is looking less than pleased about it. 

"Rose, I motherfuckin' tol' you not to get in with her. She's the bitchtitty of all motherfuckin' bad news, man, like she fucked my boy Tav up and Terezi can't see for shit anymore. Dammit." He puts his head in his hands, fingers getting lost in the thick curls. For a minute, you forget the game and revenge. Somehow, you seem to have forgotten that Vriska has hurt real people. Right now this guy in front of you is the only thing you can see and he's completely miserable. For the first time in any time at all that you can remember, you do not know what to do.

When you were little, and your mom came home drunk or she wasn't anywhere to be found when you needed her to sign school papers or go to the doctor's, it wasn't a big deal. You learned to do things on your own. She was not there to comfort you, but you were also not expected to comfort her. It worked for the both of you, really. But now, with Gamzee in front of you, you have no idea what to do. It is time to improvise. Using everything you know from the atrocious movies John made you watch, you reach your hand out tentatively, at first patting him lightly on the head but slowly starting to comb your fingers through the snarls. He lifts his head and stares at you through clouded, mournful eyes. And without any warning whatsoever, his hands grab your face and slowly pull it towards his own. To be honest, you're a bit nervous when your lips first touch his.

You aren't sure where this is going, having no experience at all in teenage relationships, and his face is even stranger up close than at a normal distance. A long, thin nose and sharp cheekbones. His face is all angles, jaunty and sharp, probably the result of a horrible diet. His eyes are focused on yours, and the paint on his face makes him look more terrifying than clownlike. Your eyes are searching his face, looking for something you can understand, something you can psychoanalyze to make sense of this whole thing. The paint is too thick and you can't tell what is real and what is from drugs and you are getting increasingly bewildered. All you get from your searching is his hand lifting from your cheek to have put over your eyes, and the warm breath of somebody whispering, "You just gotta motherfuckin' feel it, Rose. Ain't no motherfuckin' use in tryin' t' think about it." 

You are feeling. You are feeling your back being pressed farther and farther against the arm of the timeworn couch as one of his hands gently supports the back of your head, while the other rests over your eyes. He is pressing more against your lips and your clever quip is completely cut off by his tongue being in your mouth. In. Your. Mouth. You think this might be the most disgusting thing that has ever happened to you but it is hardly an option to back out, given that he is almost completely on top of you and you cannot see or talk at the moment. The taste is something between sweetness from those godforsaken pies and the bitter taste of smoke. Fine. Just fine. Two can play that game. You use your tongue as your weapon, deciding to give up on reasoning with him through words. You suppose it would be stupid to try talking anyway, and stick your tongue in his mouth, running it along his teeth and twining with his tongue and basically showing him that yes, you can do this, too. Your hands are grasping thick fistfuls his hair and he makes a little sound that brings a little bit of a blush to your face, if you are being completely honest with yourself. You yourself have never really experienced anything remotely related sexual excitement before and you don't have much of a standard to compare it to but this pressing desire is probably it. You know he's just as interested, given certain, er, signs that you can see. It takes you a minute to realize it, but his hand has left your eyes, leaving them to just been stay closed of their own accord. He is running his fingers over your neck and your bare arms are getting goosebumps. You're completely laying down now somehow, his legs are straddling you and over the din of these unusual feelings you are aware that your lunch period is probably close to over.

You hope fruitlessly that you have overestimated the time you have spent in here but you are wrong and the bell rings. You jump up and as elegantly as possible, with him casually sitting up and getting off of you, and collect your things; you are collecting your thoughts at the same time. Then, without looking at him, you fastwalk to your next class. If you looked back, you might have been tempted to cut class.


	4. You are now the confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, but the end is coming and I hope everyone will like it. Thank you for reading.

You are now hopelessly bored. This drivel has gone on practically forever, it seems to you, and does not seem like it is close to stopping anytime soon. You hope it does anyway. Vriska is now whispering to her friends for the eighth time in ten minutes and is glancing slyly at you for the tenth time in as many minutes. Really. This "subtle" bullying tactic is straight from the Handbook of Cruel Reckonings and Sadistic Domineering. You should know. You've read it. 

You've really had enough of Vriska at this point. She has backed herself into a corner without a way out and is now trying to get her vengeance without putting herself in a vulnerable position again. If you rolled your eyes any harder they might actually fall out of your head. You glance over at her noncommittally. At least her little shenanigans are keeping your head occupied. You are exercising every bit of your intelligent mind to keep it from thinking about the senior lounge. And Gamzee. And that couch. And whilst you are thinking about your thrilling new adventures in pubescence, you hear something that irritates you.

"And did you actually read it? I was like, holy shit, this is the stupidest thing I've ever read. I thought that since she's such a little freak it might not fucking suck but it soooooooo did."

You look up. She's obviously talking about you. She's looking at you now, and you're looking at her and there's no question as to who has the upper hand but it annoys you that she dares to insult your writing. She knows she has you, even though you look away in utter disgust and act nonchalant.

"Hey, Rose! Rosie, you have a problem? Come here. Let's talk this out like adults. No need to be a little whiny baby, right?"

What?! As if you were the one being childish. You snort. Well, fine. If she would like to be civil for once and work things out properly, you will surely not be the one to turn down the offer.

You sit in the desk across from her. She smiles and it makes you somewhat uncomfortable.

"Alright, I know I've been kind of a bitch, but I think we need to move beyond that."

You cringe. Where is this going?

"I want to just talk things out with you."

You may actually be perspiring a bit. It would not be beneath her to shiv you here and now in the classroom.

"Okay, you don't have to go and make that face. Just fucking listen a minute, okay?"

You are definitely perspiring now. You consider nearby objects to be shields if she attacks you.

"So...are you free, like, tomorrow night?"

Binder? No, a knife would go right through that. Textbook?

"I'm just saying that we should work things out. I'm not as bad as everyone thinks I am, really. We might even, you know, get to be friends?"

Hold on a minute. What?

"You're looking to be........friends with me?" you say, hardly believing the words coming out of your mouth.

"Yeah. Look, I just want to talk. I don't hate you, actually. How about we meet up at Lolar Park tomorrow evening? You're free then, right?"

You nod; you are not willing to admit it but you are a bit dumbfounded. Your mouth twitches into something like a smile. Gamzee will be really pleased to hear about this.

"Yes, I'm free."


End file.
